L'Historie d'un Mort-Vivant
by Spiritus Scriptor
Summary: Meg Giry's daughter, Ninette, knows nothing of the Opera Ghost until the day Christine's obituary is printed. Months later, a chance meeting with a journalist-turned-author leads her to learn more than she cared to know about the Phantom of the Opera. Her adventures may prove dangerous.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi there! **

**It's been awhile since I last wrote anything...I've been working on multiple fics at once, because I'm ADD like that. Lately I've been working on my two Hobbit fics I've got going simultaneously, which is always fun. **

**And in case any of you are wondering, yes, Comfort and Care is still in the works. I just have to think of an ending that will do it justice. **

**This little brainchild was thought up, like many of my brainchildren, in the early hours of morning after much wine and chocolate because I'm classy like that (Not really. It was I-got-my-paycheck-day.)**

**Oh, and this story is very meta. Gaston Leroux is a main character. Where the hell do I get these ideas?**

**So in order to keep with the timeline in which the book was originally published (1911? Correct me if I'm wrong), the events have been bumped up about a decade. And so begins a lovely mishmash of ALW musical/Leroux-verse with the possibility for some elements of Kay later on. **

**Oh, goody.**

* * *

1906

On the day Christine de Chagny's obituary appeared in the newspaper, my mother screamed. The news had come as quite a shock. She had not heard from her old friend in decades, ever since they were in the corps de ballet together at the Paris Opera. Christine de Chagny was known as Christine Daae then, the orphaned daughter of a famed violinist. She had a brief span as the Prima Donna before disappearing from the public eye forever. She married the Comte de Chagny and that was the last that my mother, Meg, ever heard of her. She remained at the Opera until she met my father, and then after he died, being years out of practice, she gave up dancing altogether and purchased a ladies' clothing shop. When I came of age, I went there to work with her—she a milliner and I a seamstress. She loved to regale me with stories about her days at the Opera, the fanciful scenery, the opulence, the feeling of being part of society-though she really wasn't.

But more often than not she told me about Christine, her dearest friend. They were the closest in age of all the ballet rats, and as Grandmere had taken Christine on as a second daughter, they spent a great deal of time together. But suddenly, she'd told me, when Christine was nearly seventeen years old, she became enamored with the Comte Raoul de Chagny—a childhood friend—and went away with him and got married. There had been no communication between her and my mother since. Of course, the de Chagny family would consider it an impropriety for a member of their family to be corresponding with a lowly ballerina. And now, decades later, as a lowly shopkeeper, my mother could not even attend the funeral.

"Ninette!" my mother's frail voice resounded through the house with more force than I'd heard in years. "Ninette!"

Thinking I'd find her collapsed on the floor, I raced from the kitchen where I'd been peeling vegetables for dinner to find her sitting rigidly still in her chair, one hand upon her cane, the other with a lace-edged handkerchief pressed to her mouth. A newspaper lay in her lap, its loose pages sliding to the floor. She looked up at me, and slowly she moved her hand from her cane and removed her spectacles, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief.

"Christine has died." she said flatly. The gravity in her voice shook me to the core.

"Oh, Mother, I'm sorry." I said, gathering up the sheets of newspaper and putting them aside. "Is there any chance…"

"No, no. You know as well as I that I would not be welcome at the funeral. Besides, how would I get there? The de Chagny estate is all the way in Lannion, and I'm in no condition to travel."

She had recently had trouble with breathing, and the doctors had told her to stay still as much as possible, a near impossible feat for her. Though she was growing old, she had never lost the energy she had possessed in younger years.

"And it would bring back memories…not all good ones." she added quietly, after a minute of silence.

"What memories?" I asked, before I could stop myself. I should not agitate her and make her restless. She had enough troubles.

But with that one sentence uttered, she replaced her spectacles and looked me squarely in the eye with not a trace of the tears that had been there moments ago. "Ninette, what I am about to tell you, you must swear to keep a secret. I've kept it secret long enough, but I feel as though if I hold my tongue any longer, I'll burst."

"All right."

"First of all, I am not saying this to slander Christine's name. But what I am going to tell you is that Raoul was not the only man in her life. There was, for a time, a mysterious voice that Christine claimed to be the voice of the Angel of Music. It spoke to her, and her alone. We all thought her mad, until we put two and two together and determined that her Angel was also the Opera Ghost, an entity which frightened patrons and performers of the Opera alike. But this entity was not an angel or a ghost…he was a living, breathing man, and his name was Erik."

"Why didn't you ever tell me this?" I wondered incredulously. She had gone over the aspects of her days at the Opera in the most meticulous of detail, but she had never once mentioned any Opera Ghost…or anyone named Erik, for that matter.

"You must understand," she said, leaning forward, never breaking her piercing gaze. "This is not a story to tell a child."

"I'm hardly a child anymore, Mother."

"I know…I just…I could never really bring myself to tell you. It haunts me to this day. Erik played the role of a spirit quite well, but not all of his tricks were harmless. People died by his hand. But he was brilliant. Under his ever-watchful eye, the Opera flourished. He had impeccable taste in the arts, and the managers trusted his judgment entirely. He saw details that no one else did. He was even given a salary. But all this he did unseen. He communicated with the managers only by note, and few ever saw him."

"Why?"

"He was purported to be hideously ugly. One of the few who claimed to see him was a stagehand by the name of Joseph Buquet. He loved to frighten the ballet rats with stories, but this was his grandest. Girls fainted from the mere description."

"Well, go on. Now I'm curious." I said slyly, sinking down in a chair opposite her.

"_He is mostly bald, the only hair on his head seems to be behind his ears. And he has no face…merely a skull with perhaps a hint of a face. His skin is ashen and thin, stretched over his bones like parchment. His eyes—sockets hidden beneath a massive brow, and only visible in the dark, where they glow yellow. And his nose—he has none. There is only a hole where a nose should be. A lipless mouth reveals crooked teeth. Overall, he is tall and lanky—skeletal, and his clothes hang off his emaciated form._" She recited, as though from memory. The whole time she had been staring off into the distance, as if he were standing behind me.

I must admit, I was a bit taken aback by this vivid description. It must have showed, because in the next moment my mother had straightened a little and fixed me again with that steely gaze.

"I never saw him, of course, so I have no idea whether or not this is true. I asked Mother about it once, and she said it was fairly accurate. She was the one who rescued him from a traveling fair. What she described to me of his condition was awful…afterwards, I did not pester anyone for stories of the Ghost."

"Why would you feel _sorry _for him?" I asked, a bit insensitively, I knew.

"The poor man…he was brilliant. A genius, really. You could see it in the production value—as I mentioned he served as something of a consultant. And if he could do that much, just think…he could have done so much more. But whatever genius he had was confined to the walls of his home somewhere deep beneath the opera house, where no one would ever see it. He could have been great…if only he'd been born with a normal face I have no doubt he'd have been one of the greatest minds of the age. He'd have had the entire world in the palm of his hand if he wanted. But he didn't. Can you guess what he did want?"

It was hardly a guess at this point. "Christine?"

"Exactly. He tricked her into thinking that he was the Angel of Music, sent by her departed father. And poor, naïve Christine believed him. I have no doubt he was well-intentioned, but the man had no morals. He didn't consider her thoughts at all, or that she might love someone else. In his mind, she must love him, and only him. And she did, but it was not passionate love. She loved him as a mentor. Over and over again he tried to get her to love him, securing higher and higher positions for her until she was the Prima Donna. But it was all for naught. She loved Raoul, and that was that. Erik was heartbroken."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Mother gave a heavy sigh as she stood up, leaning on her ebony cane for support. "Don't you see? It was Erik who drove Christine and me apart. If he hadn't scared her, I've no doubt she would still have come to Paris now and then. But I suppose, because of him, she didn't want anything to do with her prior life. And to think, we were like sisters." She glanced at me, and I could see once again that tears clouded her eyes.

She said no more, and it was the last we talked of it for quite a while.

That night, I wrote down all that Mother had told me in a little book I kept in my nightstand drawer. It was meant to be a diary, but I had never been good at keeping them. And besides, this was far more interesting.

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**So, yeah, chapter 1 was kind of a boring, synopsis-y thing. The plot should be gotten to by the end of chapter 2. **

**Whoever reviews gets a cookie!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Bonjour, mes amis! I have returned!**

**May I present the second installment of my bizarre little story...**

**I have no idea where this is going to end up yet. Hopefully it's not terrible. **

* * *

Weeks passed with no mention of the Opera Ghost. Mother's health had declined, her breathing had gotten worse with the damp spring air. It was unwise to pressure her further now. She was confined to the house, which left me to run the shop and all the errands besides. One day in late April I was returning home with a basket of groceries. I had gone a different way than usual, and I found myself passing by the opera house. I hadn't meant to, but here I was. Perhaps it was fate.

As I passed, I noticed a rather portly gentleman standing on the steps, having a very loud argument with the doorman.

"The management has told you countless times Monsieur, your accounts of the so-called 'Opera Ghost' are entirely fictional and not worth their time!" the doorman shouted finally, slamming the door in his face.

The man lumbered dejectedly down the stairs and turned in the opposite direction. Hands in his pockets, he looked the picture of misery. I don't know what compelled me to do it, but I followed him. It didn't take me long to catch up.

"Monsieur!" I called. "You are writing about the Opera Ghost?"

He whirled around to face me with surprising agility. Pushing his spectacles up his nose with a sausage-like finger, he regarded me closely. "You know of the Opera Ghost?" he asked in a grumbling voice.

"I've heard from a reliable source that some stories may be true." I returned. Then, as an afterthought, "Though most are probably highly embellished."

"Quite right," he agreed. "Would this…reliable source of yours, by any chance, agree to an interview?"

"Probably not, Monsieur. She is old and has not been feeling well of late."

"Ah, well." He nodded. "How about you, then?"

There seemed no obvious threat, but I was taken aback all the same. "Me? Now?"

"Yes, you, now." he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"I…I am sworn to secrecy." I stammered, backing away.

"By your reliable source?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, by my reliable source." I repeated flatly. "I'm sorry if I wasted your time."

He looked amused at that "Not at all," he said, withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his brow. "But if ever you or your reliable source should feel so inclined, my name is Leroux. Gaston Leroux. The managers of the Opera or the clerks at the Bibliotheque should know where to reach me." And with that, he turned and walked away.

"Well," I kicked at a paving stone, wondering what utter lunacy had driven me to speak to this man. I stood there for a moment, watching him walk away, and then I headed home.

* * *

"Mother," I said, over dinner that night. "I met a man today who knows about the Opera Ghost. I think he's a writer. He wanted to know if you would be interested in an interview."

"And what did you tell this man?" she asked suspiciously, putting down her knife and fork and glaring at me. She'd been doing that quite often lately.

"No details. Just that you knew a thing or two."

"Is that so?"

"Mother!" I looked up from my plate. "He's already heard stories from someone else, all I did was tell him that they might have some basis in truth."

"They do indeed," she said, examining her fork and twirling it between her fingers. "But as I've told you, some stories should never be repeated. We should let the poor soul rest in peace, for God's sake!"

"Then why did you tell me about him? You knew I'd only be curious."

She gave a frustrated sigh and placed her hands palms-down on the table. After a moment of contemplation, she demanded quietly, "Where did you meet this man?"

"In the library," I lied, easy as the truth. He did say that was one of the places I could reach him. "He was arguing with the clerk that they must have some book about the Opera which documents the Ghost."

"Oh, heavens no!" she cried, with a derisive laugh. "He should know, if he knows that much, that no stories were ever written about the Ghost."

"You're sure of that?" I asked. She seemed to know much more about him than she'd let on.

She sighed again, clutching the tablecloth in her fingers in defeat. "If you see this man again, you may tell him to ask about the manuscripts of Messrs. Debienne or Poligny, previous managers of the Opera—the ones who actually heeded the Ghost's advice. One of them is bound to have written something about him, after they retired and were safely away. They wouldn't have been able to resist." She waved her hand dismissively, and that was that.

* * *

It was at least another week before I sought out to find Monsieur Leroux. I figured the library would be the more likely place, judging by the reaction of the Opera doorman.

The library was all the way across the city, a fair walk but a short ride by streetcar. And so, on a day when I was sure I'd have enough time, I carefully counted out my pocket change and paid for a ride. I had not been to the library in quite a long time, and I had never been over-fond of reading. Indeed the place seemed rather strange to me, cavernous and dimly lit, save the lamps on the reading tables. And silent as the crypt, at that.

Cautiously I approached the front desk, expecting to be thrown out once the clerk knew who I was asking for.

"Pardon me, Monsieur." I asked quietly, half-expecting a roaring echo. "Do you know where I could find a Monsieur Leroux? He told me I could ask here."

The clerk seemed only slightly annoyed, and mildly amused. "He's probably here somewhere. He almost always is, when he's not trying to get into the Opera. My guess would be that he's in the second floor reading room."

"Thank you, Monsieur." I replied, turning to leave—and then a thought struck me. "Do you have any idea _why_ he's so interested in the Opera?"

"He's a journalist," said the clerk. "And he was present at the Opera last year when they began some renovations. While he was there, I guess he heard some whispers about a ghost. Well, now it's become his pet project—he's asked for everything we have about the Opera—maps, floor plans, written accounts, everything. He's obsessed, if you ask me."

"I'll keep that in mind when I speak to him," I said, and turned to face the large marble staircase that led to the second floor.

Monsieur Leroux wasn't hard to find. He was perched on a chair that was too small for him, bent over an unrolled parchment—a map or floor plan, just as the clerk had said. He seemed to have the habit of continually pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, though they did not appear to be falling down. As I approached, I cleared my throat and he turned to face me.

"Ah! Mam'selle…" he paused in thought for a moment.

"Ninette," I said. I didn't give him my surname. He was trawling through records of the Opera, after all. Performers and workers alike would be listed, and my father had been a set carpenter. Suffice to say I didn't entirely trust him.

"Mam'selle Ninette," he replied with a hopeful grin. "I don't suppose your 'reliable source' has agreed to an interview?"

"No, but she has given me some information that she says I may pass along to you. She has asked me to tell you that if you must—this point she stresses—if you _must_ find out more about the Opera Ghost, you might ask about the manuscripts of Messrs. Debienne and Poligny. They were managers of the Opera during the tine the Ghost was active."

His eyes lit up like a child's on Christmas morning. "Oh, thank you. Thank you very much!" Then gesturing excitedly to a chair next to his, he invited me to sit down. "I can't tell you how splendid it is to have met someone else who takes interest in this. Those buffoons at the Opera dispel any rumors that he even existed, but I know he did."

I began to seriously regret searching him out. I was mildly curious about the Opera Ghost, but he was, as the clerk had said, obsessed. His hands fluttered about the various volumes and scrolls as he spoke at incredible speed. When at last he was done, he again reached up and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. I eyed him warily, hoping not to be too obvious. Perhaps it would be best if I did not seek him out again. But in the end, my curiosity won out. Mother would not talk about it, so perhaps I could learn something from Monsieur Leroux…I would just have to be very careful.

"How do you know?" I queried nervously. He removed the open books from the unrolled floor plans and tilted one towards me.

"Do you see these?" he asked, "These are floor plans for the cellars beneath the Opera—there are five. Construction of the Opera stopped briefly during the siege of Paris. The original floor plans show no flaws, but after construction began again…" he pulled up another sheet. "You see," he said, pointing at one spot. "Here. This wasn't in the original drafts."

Faded pencil lines revealed what appeared to be a small apartment built alongside one of the underground canals. The plans for the fifth cellar were so intricate that the untrained eye would have missed it.

"That is where he lived." he explained. "It was destroyed by an explosion. At least, it appeared to be an explosion. At first it was thought to be a collapse…but it was far too much force and too controlled for that. And among the debris, they found this."

He handed me what appeared to be nothing more than a faded fragment of paper that had gotten very wet at some point. But after looking at it for a moment I made out a thin line of pencil beneath the faded, blotchy ink. The margins were scrawled with disjointed letters, each forming a word and indicating a part of the drawing. It was a diagram.

"Here," he pointed at the tattered fragment I held in my hand, pointing at the lower right corner. I could make out what appeared to be a name, short, beginning with a childishly scrawled letter 'E' in faded pencil. "Is a name. I can't quite make it out, but I'm fairly certain this was drawn by the Ghost's own hand."

"Erik," I replied, without a second thought. "His name was Erik."

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**So, how did you like it? If you're so inclined (and I hope you are!) feel free to review and/or spam my inbox! It feeds the Creativity Demon.**


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